The Frenchman (Crime Royalty Romance Book 1) (7 page)

“Yes,” I said, and then I proceeded to chat and chat and chat. I asked him about what he’d done that day, how his week at work was. He talked about his apartment, how he wanted to move because it was too small. I told him there were some fabulous-looking spaces for rent above Sylvie’s studio, how I was thinking of starting to eat meat to boost my food blog. I told him about the French language class I’d signed up for, and that I was thinking of taking cooking school in my free time since it was France after all. By the time we arrived at the restaurant, a lovely, dark romantic eatery on the edge of the waterfront (about a fifteen-minute drive from the apartment), I was exhausted—with myself.

He grabbed my hand on the front steps, and waited until I met and held his stare.

“
Détendez-vous
.”

I stared at him, confused.

“You be calm?”

Ah. I nodded, glancing over his shoulder, embarrassed. He lifted my chin and smiled encouragingly. “We have fun,
oui
?” he offered, taking the pressure off. I nodded again and smiled sincerely this time.

I could be too earnest. I needed to work on that.

After that, and a bottle of wine, I relaxed. He told me a couple of hilarious cop stories, including one about Marie. Back when he was her partner, he’d set her up thinking she was busting a robber, and it turned out to be a surprise birthday party.

“Did she like it? The surprise party?”

“Mm,” he waffled. “No,” he admitted. “Marie does not like, how do you say, sudden.”

I nodded, thinking the word he probably meant was “spontaneous.”

We had that in common.

“She is different around you,” he added.

“Really? How?”

He seemed to search for the word. “Not hard, soft,
oui
? You are having a good time?” he added, changing the subject, holding my eyes. We’d both just shared a piece of chocolate cake with the most intense cocoa flavor I’d ever tasted, and my chocolate blogs made the shortlist at
Saveur
magazine’s 2011 Best Food Blog Awards.

I thought about his question. Was my world on fire? No. Did I feel the need to check my texts or tweet? No.

“
Oui, merci
,” I said.

He kept looking up at me, from under his brow, and moving his jaw slightly.

“You like music?” he asked. My face flushed. He knew I did. On our way here, I had done what I always did when I heard a great song on the radio. I clapped my hands together and reached for the volume, before I remembered it wasn’t Jess’s car. He had graciously encouraged me to turn it up.

“I would like to take you dancing. To a
boîte de nuit
.”

Oh. My eyebrows popped up. I didn’t expect a cop to want to go to a nightclub. But, they have fun, too. I nodded. Why not? It was only midnight.

I was beyond disapproving when he got behind the wheel of his car. We’d finished a bottle of wine together. I hedged, but with a hand on my shoulder he commandeered me into the passenger seat of his Peugeot. “You are safe with me. I am an officer of the law,” he answered my silent protests, emphatically, charmingly, closing the door.

When we arrived ten minutes later,
safely
, outside a set of buildings tucked in from the port, I was certain he had lost his way. Creeping along slowly, up ahead, I made out people waiting in a long line.

He stopped right in front of the line and got out. A doorman opened my door. Another man was walking around the back. Was it a valet car service? Bastien didn’t pay them anything. Instead, he helped me out of my side and tugged me along, gaping, after him, up a dark five-hundred-year-old (or so I guessed) stairwell. I could feel the beat in the soles of my feet, and my adrenaline jacked up. I decided Bastien must be a regular—which struck me as odd. What kind of detective goes to a club regularly? Then I thought: it’s France. What do I know?

Another doorman opened a set of doors at the top of the stairs for us. My eyes struggled to take it all in. Dimly lit crystal chandeliers hung down at different heights. Scattered throughout the two levels were at least six balustered staircases. It was like Gone with the Wind meets Parisian Goth. And the music: it was stuff I’d never heard before. “What’s this place called?” I shouted in his ear.

“Noir.”

After that, Bastien’s hand always seemed to be on me. On my arm at the bar, as we ordered champagne, on my back as we wove around groups, around my waist on the dance floor. He tried to make eye contact as we danced in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. He’d grown bolder in the dark.

Ever aware of the gawkers leaning over railings watching the dance floor, I downed my entire glass of champagne. I could make this work, I told myself, because I wanted to dance. And I did make it work, sort of, with one more glass of champagne. But Bastien kept shifting in, trying to dance against my body. He wasn’t getting the message every time I subtly inched away.

I just wasn’t into him. He was forcing the issue, so I had my answer. And that was a let-down, mostly because of the Marie connection.

After five or six songs, I motioned I was in need of a break and suggested this, loudly, in his ear. He pulled me right into his body to hear better, which was unnecessary. I eye-rolled inwardly. He nodded and ushered me through the dance floor and up one of the sets of winding stairs.

After he planted me at an empty spot against the bar, he spread his hand, gesturing, “Back in five.” I nodded and leaned in, hoping to get the bartender’s attention. I checked out my reflection in the mirrored bar. Flushed. Eye makeup holding up. My barrette had slipped down slightly. The big curls had fallen, and I smoothed a few blond strays. The bartender came over and I ordered a mineral water.

“Not another champagne?” someone said in my ear. My stomach flipped.

His voice
.

Panicked, I glanced in the mirror at the man who had just spoken to me, and my pulse quickened.

Impossible.

I turned sideways and looked up.

Yes. It was him.

My heart was in my throat.

It was Louis. Towering over me.

Our eyes met. His expression was . . . a dark force. A stormy, violent, dark force.

 What in the—?

I swallowed.

What was he doing here? How, how did he know I had been drinking champagne? Had he been watching me? I faced forward, uncertain how to deal with the man behind me. I mean, why was he even talking to me?

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked snidely, stepping in so close I couldn’t turn around if I wanted to. My breath hitched. He was barely touching me with his body, but he was touching me. I was reeling in his presence, his aggressive presence.

I recalled him storming out of Marie’s bedroom. And the two women he’d had a few days ago. I pursed my lips. The music’s beat pounded inside me, and I called on restraint from all the Sunday school I had had to teach in my youth.

“Not as much as you enjoyed yourself the other night, I’m sure,” I practically shouted. Then I squared him up in the mirror.

Good, Fleur. Show him how jealous you are.

His eyebrows raised, and his face, formerly so fierce, warmed, gratified. He’d understood perfectly that I was referring to the two women, and that I was hurt.

As much as I wanted to deny the truth, or hide it, to protect myself, I wasn’t capable.

He leaned in, and both his arms trapped me in place. “I sent them home. Without supper. Join me for a drink,” he said in my right ear, his lips just grazing it, creating an erotic sensation. Join him for a drink? Wait, so he didn’t do the
bimbettes
? Without supper? Maybe they’d still been appetizers.

“I’m here with someone,” I proudly informed him in the mirror.

Yeah, that’s right!
I added silently with my face.

“I know,” he answered, deflating the effect I was going for.

So he had been watching me.

How long?

He did that whole silent conversation thing with his eyes. I wanted to shout, “I have no idea what you’re saying!”

“Leave him. Join me,” he ordered, finally, and I sucked in a bunch of stale club air. Who did he think he was?

But dammit if excitement didn’t instantly balloon in my chest as a bunch of thoughts sprang to mind. He
is
into me. Isn’t he? He had been watching me. Dancing with Bastien maybe. Changed his mind? Is he jealous? Maybe he’s just competitive. After all, he was an athlete and a dick. There was no getting around that.

He was watching my reflection think it over. His arms slid around my waist and he pressed himself into my body. I gasped, and my eyelids flapped wider than ever.

Is that . . .?
I asked him in the mirror silently. His sly smile answered me.

Yes, that was his stiff cock prodding my back.

He squeezed himself hard into me, and my knees nearly buckled as I clasped the bar.

His gaze pinned mine in the mirror.

The feeling of powerlessness I experienced
. . 
. how could it be so intoxicating? I was at his mercy in that moment. He leaned over me fully, shadowing my entire body. Pushing my hair to one side he whispered, “Does he make you feel like I do?” His warm lips touched my neck, and his tongue licked my sensitive skin. He left a wet mark, and the memory of the sensation of his expert tongue between my other lips rushed at me. It was too late. With my half-lidded eyes and soft moan, I’d answered him.

No. No one makes me feel like you, Louis
.

I was starting to wonder if anyone ever could.

I closed my eyes tightly for a moment. “Have a drink with me, Fleur,” he said. When I opened my lids, he was a mask of determination. I really, really wanted to say yes. And he knew it. Somehow he knew.

Probably because he had this effect on women all of the time. It’s his superpower. Making women lusty, wet, confused, desperate for his cock. Marvel could do a whole naughty series about him. They could call him The Kneeler. Because I would’ve dropped down before him and begged.

He shifted slightly against me, and—
breathe, Fleur
—I swear an earthquake could have brought the walls down around me and I would still have been focused on how there were just two thin layers of material between me and his big gun, pressed into my lower back. His eyes met mine again. I knew that’s how he would stare at me when he entered me and eventually pulled the trigger.

Fleur!

I shook my head.

Enough was enough.

He was unpredictable.

Hot. Cold. Cold. On
fire
!

He was too unpredictable and rude and threatening to my perfect, simple, orderly world. I couldn’t control myself around him, never mind control him.

Plus, I’d been raised better than that: I would not ditch a date. I was wimpy, with a side of righteous and a dash of class. Just as I nudged my elbows back, and I will admit, regretfully, another body push in beside us.

“Fleur,” said Bastien, emphatic. I pushed back against the dark force behind me, and then asked him to move, silently, panicked in the mirror.

After a quick glance at me, and a menacing look at Bastien’s reflection, Louis stepped back.

I turned around quickly. Brows raised, I looked at Bastien, concerned he would make something of the large man from the elevator groping me.

But he wasn’t paying attention to me at all. Bastien, quite a bit shorter, was staring up at Louis, not the least bit intimidated. In fact, Bastien was wearing a smile. A distinctly smug smile. A shock blasted through me: They
do
know each other.

Louis’s expression: vague, distant, simmering, unhappy.

My eyes were drawn by two other men in blazers who had somehow made their way behind Louis. They stood, poised like watchful guard dogs. Were they his friends? A third moved in behind Bastien. Blood drained from my face. No. No, they were not nearly as nicely dressed as Louis. One of them was much older. They kept checking out Louis, like they were waiting for instructions. He remained stony, staring down a smiling Bastien.

Sensing something was very wrong, and that I was caught up in it somehow, I stepped forward and grabbed Bastien’s arm.

“I want to leave.”

I was scared. I didn’t know why. But I was. Even others around us must have sensed the change in energy because they had dispersed somewhat.

“Bastien,” I pleaded. He noticed me, finally, and his expression softened. “
Oui. On y va
.”

Placing an arm around me, he nudged me forward, but Louis wouldn’t step out of the way. I paused. Louis glared down at me, his thick dark brows sewn up in the middle, the rest of his face clenched in a scowl. A shiver ran down my spine. I twisted my body sideways and squeezed past, hoping Bastien would do the same. Instead, he released my hand.

Louis stepped forward. My heart stopped. All I could do was watch Bastien’s face, impassive, as Louis said something to him. It was just a few words, and Louis stepped around Bastien and left.

I watched my Frenchman, along with his massive shoulders and nasty entourage, head off into the crowd.

I was stunned. Bastien escorted me down the exit stairs without a word. His car arrived via the valet within minutes. Relief began to set in. The gulps of cool, fresh sea air I took before getting into his car also helped.

And in my relieved state, I could see how the coincidences were piling up. An ugly weed took root in my mind.

“What was that all about?” I asked, without any politeness, as we got underway.

Bastien examined me briefly before focusing his eyes back on the dark, narrow street.

“I have a . . . history, with that man. How do you know him?” he added, bringing the car to a gentle stop before turning it onto a main street.

My stomach dropped. “I don’t,” I answered truthfully (
know
him, that is). I didn’t need Bastien telling Marie about Louis humping me in a bar.

He kept staring at me. “I am police. Also, I am very smart.” He tapped his head, staring at me.

I was officially panicked. I could not let the truth, the whole truth, get back to Marie. So I blurted out that I’d met Louis at the bistro across the street the night my friend Jess left, and that we joined them for a drink. And then, we all went our separate ways.